In Sickness
by darkpartofmydestiny
Summary: A deleted scene from my story A Life Together. John suffers an industrial accident - Margaret is there, and her eyes are opened to the true dangers of cotton mills as she faces the prospect of a life without her husband. Contains description of injury. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story needs a little bit of explaining. This was originally going to be a chapter in my story A Strange Situation (it would have happened around chapter 24, I wrote this way back in May so can't remember exactly) that would have changed the entire plot of the story. I ran it past a few people who told me it probably wasn't a good idea as it was such a dramatic thing to happen and would need so much time spent on the aftermath. So instead it's just been sitting in my google docs gathering dust. I really wanted to post it as I worked hard on it and also did a lot of research into the real dangers of cotton mills and general factory work in the industrial revolution period. **

**I wanted to post it somewhere as I'm quite proud of it, and also I think it's a topic that hasn't been much explored in the N&S fandom. This story does contain some details that have been established in the full story, but you don't have to have read the story to make sense of this. I'm glad I didn't include this in my main story, I did say in an author's note that I had been planning this and the reaction was entirley negative. I hope you don't mind reading it here, in a oneshot.  
**

**Full warning; this story contains descriptions of industrial accidents. I haven't been needlessly gory, but some people may find this upsetting.**

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John woke first, as he always did. Years of rising early and years of sleepless nights meant that he had become an expert at surviving on little sleep. Now, however, there was a much more pleasant reason for being awake so early.

In the past few months, he had found himself stirring just so he could watch Margaret sleep. He had not told her this, afraid she would find it rather odd and feel uncomfortable. It was a rather strange habit, he could admit that. He relished the quiet moments where he could just watch her, listening to the sounds of her breathing. There was precious little silence in his life, his days filled with relentless noise. Those snatched moments of peace reminded him that she was real, that she was his wife and had consented to sleep beside him always.

These early months of their marriage had been more than John had dared to hope for. It had been strange at first, waking up to find someone else sleeping beside him for the first time in thirty years. Margaret had still been a little timid and almost uncharacteristically shy, but in the dark hours of the night they had lain together as husband and wife with increasing abandon. John was so happy he could burst.

"You're watching me sleep again, aren't you?" Margaret asked, turning toward him and slinging an arm over his chest. "Close your eyes, lie down beside me."

"I've got to get up soon." He whispered, running the wisps of hair that lay on her forehead through his fingers. His fingers danced down her face, tracing the length of her neck. He could not seem to stop touching her. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I should get used to waking up earlier." Margaret insisted, sitting up and stretching out her arms. John watched her in the dim light that seeped through the curtains. Glints of sunlight caught in her hair, making it shine.

"I don't think there's much chance of that love. You're like a bear with a sore head when you're tired." John told her.

The first few weeks of their marriage had been a learning experience for John; he had never considered Margaret to be short tempered. Passionate, yes. Willful, yes. Short tempered - no, it was not in her nature. Yet after just a few days of interrupted sleep and late nights, she began snapping at him over the smallest things. It was only after she had fallen asleep face down in a book one night that he realised she was not made to keep the hours that he did.

"That isn't true." Margaret protested with a yawn.

"You look beautiful this morning." John told her, playing with the ends of her hair. He loved that he was the only person, save for Dixon, who saw her like this. Her hair was so long that it reached down her back in gentle curls. There was something strangely intimate about it; neither of them caring about appearances or propriety. Merely a man and a woman in their own private world.

"You say that every morning." Margaret said with a smile, laughing as he pressed a kiss to her collar bone.

"You look beautiful every morning." He said against her skin, his hands brushing either side of her hips. "I must tell you so, it is my duty as a faithful and loving husband."

"You're going to be late." Margaret protested unconvincingly. The sun was already beginning to rise. "It must be almost five o'clock already."

"Just a few more minutes. There're still plenty of places left for me to kiss." He told her earnestly, climbing on top of her and burying his face in her neck.

"There will be time for that this evening." Margaret said, giggling in delight as he kissed just above her belly button through her nightgown. She hooked her arms under his shoulders and hauled him up to face her. "Come, you can't be late. Was last night not enough for you?"

"I don't think that it will ever be enough for me." He murmured into her ear, nipping the skin of her lobe. "But I suppose you're right, it's no good lying about here all day. Go back to bed for a while, there's no use you being up so early too."

He rolled off her, standing up and readying himself for the day. As he turned around to talk at her whilst tying his cravat, Margaret was already sound asleep.

Margaret rose just after seven, dressing quickly and eating a light breakfast by herself. Mrs Thornton ate earlier than she did, and tended to be attending to household accounts. Margaret wondered if this was her way of avoiding small talk over breakfast, but given that she was not the best company in the morning she could not be bothered by this. The children tended to turn up to their lessons in dribs and drabs, usually all coming together by nine in the morning. Their parents and guardians went to work much earlier, and the children were generally trusted to see themselves to school.

The Boucher children were always first, brought by Nicholas on his way into work before seven. They sat nicely at the tables, spending time scratching pictures their slates. Margaret indulged them, having a special fondness for them.

By the time the church bells tolled eight, the class was full - just as Margaret had predicted it would be. Each bench held around twenty, so forty boys and girls sat together waiting for Margaret to begin. They chattered excitedly, the boys' side of the room considerably more raucous than the girls.

All morning there had been a driving rain outside, thick globules of rain splattering the yard. The girls and boys had run in shrieking to get out of the rain, soaked to the skin. Many had jostled to be closer to the fire, but thankfully they had all started to calm down.

It did not help that the rain had been joined by a fierce thunderstorm. The thunder seemed to rumble every two or three minutes, followed quickly by bright flashes of lightning. The yard outside was empty, so the classroom was unusually quiet - save for the excited squeals of the students, of course.

"Children, please, settle down. I know the storm is a little scary, but we have things to do today. Now, who remembers where we were yesterday?"

Little Peggy stuck her hand in the air with such speed Margaret couldn't help but smile.

"We were learning about all the Kings and Queens, Miss."

"That's right, I think we were up to Henry VIII. Who can remember how many wives he had?"

Peggy raised her hand again.

"Someone else, perhaps. Tom?" She nodded towards Tom Boucher, who chewed his lip as he tried to recall their previous lesson.

"Six, Miss." Tom said, holding up the correct number of fingers.

Margaret patted his head indulgently; though she shouldn't have favourites, there was a special place in her heart for young Tom. He scowled a little, fixing his hair and Margaret tried not to laugh.

"Well remembered."

A crash of thunder broke overhead, terrified screams filling the room. Margaret shushed them.

"It won't hurt you, children. It is merely a thunderstorm, nothing more. It will not hurt you, you are safe in here. Now, who can remember what happened to all of the six wives? I shall start. Divorced.."

The children dutifully chanted "beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived". Margaret smiled; she had always found Henry VIII and his six wives fascinating. Perhaps it was not the most orthodox way of teaching, to focus on things she personally enjoyed, but she wished for the children to learn in a way that stimulated their imagination.

"Very good. Now, let us write their names down. We will start with Henry."

She moved to the large blackboard, writing "HENRY VIII" in large, swooping letters. The children copied the letters down onto their slates and she walked round, checking each board. Some struggled with cursive writing, and she crouched down beside them to correct their letters.

Another crash of thunder broke, though the children seemed to be more used to it now. Margaret returned to the board and was just writing "CATHERINE OF ARAGON" when Nicholas came running into the school room.

"Mistress." He addressed her. "Mistress, you're needed in the spinning shed."

The spinning shed - why on Earth would she be needed there? It was right at the back of the factory, hot and humid. She had rarely been in there.

"Nicholas, what's the matter?" Margaret asked, her eyes darting towards Emma who stood at the back of the room.

Emma walked over, looking between Higgins and Margaret with concern.

Nicholas shook his head, and Margaret frowned. This really was most unlike him. Eventually, the man composed himself, swallowing heavily.

"Mrs Thornton, you'd better come quick." He pressed her, and Margaret realised then that something must have been terribly, terribly wrong.

"You go, Mrs Thornton. I'll be alright here." Emma said, giving Margaret a small shove towards Nicholas.

It felt as though she was glued to the spot; knowing she must leave, knowing something terrible must have happened. Yet, somehow, it felt as though if she stayed right here everything would stay the same.

"What has happened?" Margaret asked, feeling her blood turn to ice in her veins. She walked towards the door and she could see that Nicholas was a strange colour, his face ashen. He kept swallowing heavily, his mouth set in a tight line.

"The Master, there was an accident. You need to come, we've sent for the doctor."

Margaret felt her feet move before she was even aware she wanted to run. Nicholas ran ahead, and she followed him with a knot in her stomach. What sort of accident? She realised with a terrible shudder that John could be dead.

"Is he alive?" She called out, her throat thick.

She came to a stop, unable to run anymore. Her breath was rapid, her eyes seeing stars. She could not think, she could barely hear anything over the rush of blood in her ears. Higgins turned and saw she had stopped. He walked to her, placing a hand on her arm. She looked up at him in desperation.

"Aye, he's alive. I must warn you miss, it in't a nice thing to see. He needs you with him, he's been calling out for you. That's why I came - this isn't a thing for a woman like you to see, but I can tell when a man truly needs his wife."

"What has happened, exactly?" Margaret began to walk again, Nicholas keeping pace beside her.. "Nicholas, you must tell me before I see him. I can't let him see my fear, not if he is hurt."

"He was fixing a machine. I've told him often enough that that in't his job. He were right there when it seized up and he took it upon himself to sort it out. There's no stoppin' him sometimes, he was under it before any of us could get near. It gets clogged with loose cotton, it's easy enough to fix but it's dangerous work."

It was true that John had always been quick to fix his machines; Margaret remembered the hours he had spent before the opening underneath one contraption or another. His drive for success had made him even more involved with every aspect of the mill, and it did not surprise her that he had ignored the warnings of his workers. He liked to be in control - and the machines were one area where he could have that control.

"What has happened to him?" Margaret asked again, her voice trembling. She knew the dangers those machines posed; she had heard of a child killed not two weeks before at Hamper's.

"The mechanism, it can..I don't know how to describe it, but it can sort of snap back as you clear it. It caught his whole right side of his arm, and his chest too. It's a large mechanism, and if you're caught in it.. It didn't crush him, not as far as I can see anyway, but it's cut him badly." Nicholas told her. "We managed to get him out, he's not lost his arm. But he is very badly injured, I won't lie to you Margaret. I left to fetch you and send a lad to get Doctor Donaldson before getting a proper look at him, but there were blood. You need to prepare yourself, Margaret."

"Oh God." Margaret took a shuddering breath, unsure what she was about to see. Her heart hammered against her chest, her throat tight. Tears welled in her eyes, though she brushed them away angrily. John did not need her tears.

As they neared the room where the accident had happened, Margaret could hear John roaring in pain. The sound went through her, and she let out a heaving sob that was beyond her control. She pushed past Nicholas and ran into the room. The heat hit her like a brick wall, her breath coming out of her as though she had been struck. Cotton fluff filled the air, so thick that Margaret had to squint to make out the figure in a heap on the floor. John lay on the floor between the machines, groaning in agony. A young hand knelt beside him.

"My love." Margaret ran to him, dropping to his side. She could see that the hand beside him had been applying pressure to John's arm using what looked to be John's jacket. The boy stood up, and Margaret wordlessly took over his task and pressed hard on the jacket covering John's arm. She was worried she would hurt him, but someone took her hands and told her to push even harder.

John looked up at her, his eyes glazed over with pain. It was as though he wasn't seeing at her at all.

"I'm sorry." He muttered, swallowing heavily. His eyes rolled in his head and Margaret gasped in alarm. "Margaret I'm so sorry."

"Shh, there's nothing to be sorry about."

"I don't want to die. I don't want to leave you." His words were slurred together, almost incoherent.

His body shook with the trauma of the injury, his teeth chattering together as he trembled. His skin was a horrible grey colour, his trembling lips turning blue. Margaret could not believe that things had gone so wrong so quickly; this morning they had been lying in bed happily. Now he was bleeding in her arms, speaking of death. She felt a tear roll down her cheek. She could not find the strength to raise her hand away from him to brush it away.

"You are not dying. You are not leaving me." Margaret stroked his face, moving so she was half lying on the floor, her cheek against his. "I love you, I love you so much."

"I love you. Oh Christ it hurts. It really bloody hurts." John said through gritted teeth, trying not to yell. It did not work, and he bellowed with the pain.

Margaret braced herself to look down the length of his body to see the extent of his injuries, lifting the jacket and holding her breath. His right arm was covered in blood. John's shirt sleeve was rolled up above the elbow - as he always did when fixing machines so that the material would not get caught in the workings. He took such care in all that he did, how had this happened?

There was a gash down the same side of his chest, she could see it where his shirt had been ripped open to expose the wound. There was so much blood that she could hardly make out the shape of his lower arm. Blood oozed from a large slash in the middle, as well as smaller cuts. Blood pooled around him, his shirt soaked completely crimson. His whole arm was a mess of blood and muscle, she could scarcely stand to look at it. Margaret could not begin to imagine the pain her husband must be in.

Her eyes moved down to his hand and Margaret realised with pure, unadulterated terror that three of his fingers were missing.

She closed her eyes, swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat. She took a deep, steadying breath and knew that she must not show John just how terrified she was. She looked at him, her eyes fixed on his. She could not look at his arm again, for she knew that she would break down into tears.

She took his face in her hand whilst she covered his arm with again, praying that he had not seen what she just had. Margaret could tell that he was desperately trying to keep his composure, the muscles of his face twitching with the effort. He was panting, the exertion of keeping his breathing steady exhausting him. Margaret could not stand to see him in such agony.

"John, look at me. Doctor Donaldson is coming, he'll be here any moment. Talk to me, stay with me." She stroked his forehead, wiping cold sweat away. She tried to smile but she couldn't. "I love you."

"I love you, I'm sorry. I don't want to go. Do you think my father will be there?" John asked, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. His pupils were large and unfocused.

"Where, darling?" Margaret asked soothingly, brushing the cotton fluff out of his hair.

It was unbearably hot in the spinning shed, and Margaret felt dizzy with the humidity. Her breath was getting harder to catch, she felt as though she were being crushed by some unseen weight. It was unbearable.

"In heaven." John rasped, eyes cast upwards.

Margaret wanted to cry. She ran her fingers down the side of his face, willing him to focus his attention on her and not on another world that she was not ready for him to discover.

"John, you are not going to die. Please, please don't speak of such things." Margaret begged him through her tears, but he did not hear her.

He continued despite her pleading, his voice growing weaker with every word.

"I know they say that men who kill themselves, they don't go there. It is not fair, it is not.." He began to cough uncontrollably, his words lost. He was delirious with pain, Margaret knew, but to hear him speak of death terrified her.

"Shh, shh. Someone, please go and get his mother. She needs to be here." Margaret called to the men standing watching.

Higgins left could not imagine the pain Hannah would suffer once told of her beloved son's accident. Actually; she could. She was feeling it herself. She would not wish this upon her worst enemy.

It felt like hours until Doctor Donaldson arrived, trailed by the elder Mrs Thornton. She looked at her son with the same horror that Margaret had felt. By this point, John was barely conscious, a few nonsensical words being muttered every now and then. Margaret rose to give the doctor room to examine him. She moved to her mother in law, who took her hands tightly in her own.

"I've told him." Hannah said, her voice trembling. "I've told him not to mend the machines himself. He's too tall to be effective, and now-"

"He has lost three fingers." Margaret said bluntly. The horror of her husband's accident made her feel numb, and her words seemed to come without thought for how they would hurt his mother. "His index, middle, and his little finger of the right hand."

"Dear God." Hannah went white. "My boy. My poor boy."

"We need to get him to the house." Doctor Donaldson said. He looked to the men still standing around. "Get a long plank of wood from the yard, one of you. Break a crate up, whatever you need. We'll tie him to it and lift him up. He needs stitches before he loses any more blood."

Margaret felt numb and far away. The men did as they were told, and she watched with dead eyes as they carried John into the house. The local hospital was dirty and notoriously ill managed; it was far better for John to be treated at home, if possible. The hospital surgeons were no better than butchers, it was far better to have a doctor like Donaldson treat him, Margaret knew. The surgeons would take the entirety of his lower arm off, she had heard of such things before. Dr Donaldson, she prayed, would at least try and save his hand. John was carried up the stairs into their bedroom, the door shut and Margaret most certainly not welcome.

Margaret and Hannah Thornton paced the drawing room floor for an indeterminate amount of time. The house was still save for the noise coming from the mill; the only sounds coming from within the house itself were the servant girls running up and down the stairs with bowls of hot, clean water for Doctor Donaldson. Another doctor arrived, though Margaret was not sure who had sent for him. This whole thing did not seem real.

A life without John was not one she wanted to imagine. They had only been married for three months. Three short months. Fate could not be so cruel as to snatch him away from her now, it would be so unfair.

"You must be strong." Hannah was beside her, placing a hand on Margaret's back. "We must all be strong, for him. No matter what happens."

"I know that." Margaret said in a small voice. "I just- I have never seen-"

The thought of the scene that had greeted her in the spinning room made Margaret's stomach churn. She had never seen such a horrific accident, though she knew such things happened. She was not naive; cotton was not a safe industry to work in. She had heard John's rattling cough at night, she knew there were dangers. But - but this. This was too terrible to bear.

"I know. I know. You have been very brave, Margaret. Be brave just for a little longer."

Margaret was unutterably grateful for her mother in law then - the voice of reason in a moment of absolute chaos. Even when consumed by her own distress, Margaret could see Hannah was suffering, her face dull and her hands restless. Margaret felt guilty then; this was John's mother. She had had the misfortune to see her only, beloved son lying on the floor covered in blood. Margaret's own despair was shared by Hannah Thornton. Perhaps it was even eclipsed by the pain of a mother seeing her cherished child so gravely injured.

"I have never felt so helpless." Margaret whispered.

"Nor me." Hannah admitted. A tear ran down her face, and she raised a handkerchief to wipe it away. She took a deep breath. "I have already lost one child, I do not know if you knew that. She was little more than a babe when she died, but the loss - I cannot describe it. I cannot lose another, I cannot lose my John. When you have a child, you'll realise that they never _stop_ being your child. It sounds obvious, when you put it like that. John is a man now, he's been a man a good long while. Yet when I look at him, I still think of that small boy that would cling to my skirts. He is the best son a mother could ask for, he has made sacrifices for this family that I'm not sure you'll ever truly understand, Margaret. I will never stop loving him, I will never stop trying to protecting him just as he protected me when his father died. It doesn't matter that he's married now, or that God willing he will be a father himself one day. They are always your babies, no matter how tall they grow."

"I am so scared." Margaret admitted. "I did not know it was possible to feel such fear."

Mrs Thornton merely opened her arms to her. Margaret almost fell against her, sobbing into her shoulder. Together, the two women dropped to the floor in their despair, kneeling against the carpet. They stayed like this, both clinging to the other for support. The center of both their universes lay upstairs in a condition neither of them could predict.

"Mrs Thornton, Mrs Thornton." Doctor Donaldson interrupted after a while. Both women turned around to look at him. Margaret could see blood staining his shirt, and she felt sick at the sight of it. "It went well."

Margaret fell to the floor, her hands outstretched to stop total collapse, with relief.

"How is he, Doctor?" The elder Mrs Thornton asked. She wavered too, though she maintained her balance. She reached out to steady herself against whatever piece of furniture was nearest.

Doctor Donaldson rubbed his temple. He had been working for hours, his face showing the strain.

"He is sleeping. He has been in great pain, I cannot lie. I have cleaned the wounds of any cotton, doused them in alcohol and stitched them as best I can. He has lost three fingers, the others may yet not work. I could not see the extent of the muscle damage, only time will tell us that. There is some skin and tissue that has been damaged on the forearm, that will be quite heavily scarred. He has some nasty lacerations on his torso, and he will be very bruised. His head took a fair whack as he hit the floor, so he may have some dizziness and confusion. I must say, I think he has been a very lucky man. I've seen many killed by those machines."

"Thank you, Doctor. What can we do for him?" Hannah asked.

Margaret could not get up from the floor, she could not stop crying. Her husband still lived, he would survive. It was the sweetest music she had ever heard, and she wept with relief.

"I have given him laudanum for the pain. Whisky probably would help too. He will need to rest completely for at least two weeks, and even then he will not have use of his arm or hand for several months. I will be back twice daily to clean his wounds, to try and stave off infection."

Margaret left the room. She could not wait any longer; she had to see him. She raced up the stairs to their bedroom. She took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. John was alone, pale against the white sheets of their bed.

She knelt beside him, wanting to take his hand in hers. She looked down; his hand and forearm were heavily bandaged. She wondered what he would make of this injury. She did not care if he had ten fingers or none, so long as he was still with her. He was not wearing a shirt, and Margaret could see dark purple bruises blooming on his right side. A long, jagged cut ran along his stomach, stopping just above his belly button. It had been stitched, the ugly black thread puckering in the middle.

Margaret got onto the bed and lay down beside him. The sheets were stained with his blood, but she did not care. She had to be near him, she had to know that he was still here with her. She closed her eyes just for a moment. Against her will, exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep to the steady rhythm of her husband's breathing.

She woke to the sound of her name.

"Margaret, is that you?" He whispered, though the room had grown so dark she could hardly see him. There was a fire in the grate; someone must have been in to make it. "Is this heaven?"

"No, this is Milton." Margaret said with a small laugh, so relieved that he was talking to her. "My love. My poor darling."

Margaret sat up and turned to her bedside table. She lit the oil lamp that rested there, wanting to see John's face more clearly. His eyes looked heavy, great purple shadows beneath them. She could see a lump on the side of his head that she had not noticed before. He looked wretched.

"What happened? How did I get here?" He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the light coming from the lamp.

"You don't remember? There was an accident. You were badly hurt, your hand.." Margaret tried to explain, though the words were lost. She tried not to cry; he looked so small somehow.

"I can't feel my fingers." John muttered, his head lolling on the pillow as he tried to find the strength to lift his head. "Why can't I feel my fingers?"

Margaret swallowed hard, trying to find the words to tell him. This was John; he would not appreciate tip toeing around it. She must tell him plain and honestly. He deserved that much at the very least.

"I'm so sorry love. Your hand, it was trapped in the machine. You-you lost three of your fingers and the doctor doesn't know how badly damaged the rest of your hand is."

Once the terrible words had escaped her, Margaret could do nothing to soothe John. He cried out in anguish, a gutteral sob filling the air. He was exhausted, his body clearly weakened and his mind not far behind, but the noises he made were ones of pure despair. Margaret's heart broke to hear it, though she did not show him her distress. She merely shushed him softly, taking the rag from the bowl by the bed and mopping his brow.

"Oh God." John groaned, trying again to sit up. Margaret pressed gently on his shoulders to keep him still, pressing a kiss to his damp forehead.

"You are alive. You are alive and it could have been so much worse." Margaret told him, her voice cracking.

It was so hard to stay calm, almost impossible not to break down into tears beside him. Their lives would be different now, that was true. It would take time for him to recover, and he would need to adapt to being without the most important of his fingers. Margaret knew he could do recover from this; he had persevered through enough dark times, his mind was stronger than he gave credit.

"Rather me than a child. I've seen them dragged in before, I need to find a way to stop it." John coughed and immediately winced with pain. "My stomach hurts."

"You are bruised and cut all over. I do not know how, but the machine must have dragged you under somehow. I am sure it will hurt, but you will heal with time and rest. I am just thankful that you are here with me; I thought I would lose you. You were talking about dying, you were talking about your father.." Margaret could not continue, tears rolling down her cheeks. She could not speak of it.

"I saw him." John said, shifting to try and get comfortable. "He spoke to me. He told me - it was not my time."

Margaret bit back a sob; it may well just have been the medication Dr Donaldson had given him causing him to hallucinate, but knowing that John had at the very least imagined dying and turning back towards life hurt her in a way she had never felt. To think that he had spoken to the spirit of his father, that he had come so close to death.. It was like a knot in her stomach, as though she had swallowed a stone.

"I am thankful to your father for that. I could not stand to lose you." Margaret kissed his forehead gently. John coughed again.

"Is there water? My throat is so dry."

Margaret leapt up, walking to the jug and glasses they kept in the bedroom. She poured water into it, rushing back to him. She knelt by his side, trying to lift the cup gently to his mouth. He drank a little, turning his head when he had finished.

"I'm tired." John yawned, his eyes closing. He was right in front of her, yet somehow he seemed to be a thousand miles away. He was not himself; his words ran together and lacked his usual focus.

"Then you must sleep, love. For as long as you need, do not worry about anything."

Margaret turned to extinguish the oil lamp. John grabbed her shoulder with his good hand, an urgent act that made Margaret turn around in surprise.

"Will you stay with me?" He asked her, squeezing her shoulder with the strength he had left. She took it off her, instead pressing it to her lips. She held it there, silently thanking God that He had returned her beloved husband to her.

"Always."

They lay together in silence as the lamp flickered and died out. The room was darkened then, the only scrap of light coming from the dying fire. Margaret could just make out the contours of her husband's face, his strong nose, his long eyelashes. She studied his silhouette more intently than she ever had before, determined never to take him for granted. John's mobile hand squeezed Margaret's so hard that it hurt. She thought it would be bad form to complain. She was just grateful he was strong enough to do it.

They rested in silence for a long time, the sound of each other breathing the only noise that filled the sacred quiet. Margaret thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke again.

"Margaret, my right hand- I will not be able to do much." John said after a while. "I won't be able to write, how will I conduct my business? I don't want to rely on others."

"Your left hand is fine. I am sure you will learn to manage." Margaret said, trying to sound positive but instead she worried she sounded cold. "I just mean.."

"I will be deformed." John interrupted her. He looked down at his arm, seeing the mess of stitches that marked the skin even in the dim firelight. "And badly scarred, by the looks of things."

"You have had an accident, that is all. There is nothing that could make me love you any less. I will always be by your side. It has only been five months, have you forgotten so quickly that we vowed to be together in sickness and in health?" Margaret asked him.

He chuckled at that. The sound of his laughter thrilled her.

"Aye, I remember. I just didn't think the sickness would come so soon. I am sorry, I must have been careless with the machine. I should have been more careful, I should have-"

Margaret shushed him again. He was working himself up; his words slurred into each other, the laudanum loosening his muscles and his senses too. There was no use talking to him like this, Margaret was sure he would not remember this conversation once the drug had worn off. All she could do now was try to soothe him.

"It is not your fault. Accidents happen. As long as you are alive. That is the only thing that matters, darling. You are here and you are safe now."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please note that this chapter deals with the emotional impact of trauma and life-changing injury on a couple. This includes John experiencing what would today be identified as depression and PTSD. It also contains non-explicit descriptions of the injuries in the previous chapter. There is strong sexual content, as reflected in the rating change.**

**This takes place around six months after the previous chapter.**

* * *

As the twelfth chime rang out, Margaret sighed heavily. Midnight.

She was alone in bed despite the late hour. Usually, sleep would have claimed her some hours ago. Her eyes felt heavy, and her body weary, but she could not sleep. She would not rest until he was beside her. She had tried to read, to pass the time and stay awake, but as she looked down she realised she had been reading that particular page for the last half an hour.

Perhaps she should go and remind him of the lateness of the hour. He lost track of time, busying himself in reading and rereading the mill's ledgers to make sure everything was being done correctly. She was worried about him, in truth. He had become almost obsessive in his business, not allowing any contract to go out that he had not overseen himself. He could not write, the injury to his right arm and hand too severe. He could not move his remaining fingers, the muscles in his arm irreparably damaged. He was trying with his left, but it had been a slow and frustrating process.

Margaret had watched over these past months, watched helplessly as her husband grew increasingly distant. He was quick to anger, quick to snap at anyone who irritated him. The whole household was constantly walking on eggshells, trying not to disturb him.

Though it was difficult, Margaret could not blame him. He had been through a terrible ordeal, suffered pain and loss that she could not even imagine. She had never raised her voice, never argued back. What would be the use of that? He needed time, time to adjust to this new life that he had not asked for. It made her ache.

Just as she debated dressing and braving the cold outside, the door opened. John entered, startling a little when he realised that she was still awake. He looked exhausted, dark circles ringing his eyes. His hair was wild, his jacket discarded somewhere so he wore only his shirt and waistcoat, his arm strapped close to his body in a sling. He must be cold, for his office was not as warm as the mill floor. His hair had little flakes of white dotted through the dark strands, and Margaret realised it must be snowing outside.

"Good evening." Margaret set her book aside and smiled at her husband. "It is late."

"I know." He offered no apology.

"I was about to come and fetch you."

"I was busy." John grunted back as he kicked off his shoes.

"You must eat." Margaret said, for he had been absent for dinner for the past week. He was looking thin, his face sharper than usual. She was sure his ribs must be showing, but it had been some time since he had let her see him in the light.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to rest."

"I am fine."

"John-"

He whipped round to face her, his shoulders squared as he pulled the sling off his arm with one furious tug. She heard the material rip, watching in silence as it fell in a useless heap to the floor. He tucked his arm behind his back, clearly not wishing for her to see it.

"I'm not a child, Margaret. I don't need you nagging me as soon as I set foot in the door."

Margaret felt her throat tighten and tears prick her eyes at his tone. He was quick to temper these days, even quicker than he had been before. She took a deep breath; he was not himself. She had told herself that for months, every day since the accident that had changed his life. She thanked the Lord each night in her prayers for keeping her husband safe. He would come back to her. She knew he would.

He just had to.

"I am sorry." Margaret said after a moment, watching him remove his jacket and waistcoat. "I am worried about you, that's all."

He looked up, his hand struggling with the buttons of his waistcoat. Margaret saw the expression on his face, and knew it well. He was frustrated, as he often was, and she could not blame him.

"I'm sorry." He rubbed at his face. "I'm sorry I spoke to you harshly."

"Can I help you?"

He hesitated, his brows knitting together as he considered it.

"Yes."

She climbed out of bed, the floor already cold beneath her feet. It was February, and the weather outside was frigid. The air, despite the fire, was cold and damp. She shivered, rubbing at her arms as she walked to him. Wordlessly, she undid the buttons of his waistcoat, pushing it down over his shoulders. She took great care with his wounded hand, carefully pulling the waistcoat over it without so much as brushing his skin.

Then, her fingers worked at his shirt buttons. He batted her hand away as she neared the bottom of the row, turning away and pulling it up over his head himself.

"Turn away."

"John-"

"Turn away." His voice softened to a plea.

"John, you do not need to hide from me."

"I'm not hiding." He said tightly. "What would be the point in that? You know exactly what I look like, exactly what a mess I am."

"The servants left water for you, it is by the fire." Margaret said, for his words did not need a response - there was no amount of reassurance that could help him tonight. "You are filthy. Your neck is quite grey."

"Thank you."

He turned to walk towards the basin, and winced. He grabbed his arm, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain hit him hard. Margaret could only watch, for touching him when he was like this only made things worse - as she had discovered some months earlier.

"What can I do? I have the laudanum, would that help?" Margaret asked, wishing that she could take him in her arms and ease his pain.

"I'm not taking it." He bit out. "I'm not taking that stuff again unless I am near death. It will pass. It's been a long day, that's all."

It was of no surprise to her that he had rejected the laudanum outright, and in truth she did not blame him. Though it did a most effective job of removing his pain, it also took his senses with it, rendering him inca. It was a most addictive drug, and John refused to take it more than was necessary.

She waited until he straightened himself out, his face relaxing as the pain seemed to ease. The attacks came on suddenly, but mercifully never seemed to last for long.

"Let me help you wash." Margaret offered.

"I'm not a child."

"No." Margaret frowned. "And I have no wish to treat you as one. You are my husband and I am offering my assistance so that you might wash and then go to bed. You cannot go to sleep dirty."

"Fine."

Laying a towel on the floor, Margaret waited as John shed his trousers. Mindful he did not wish to be leered at, she turned while he undressed, turning only when he was standing on the towel. It seemed a little pointless, for now he was nude in front of her. She had washed him before; the nature of his injury meant he struggled to bend, and it was difficult to reach areas with only one hand. She was happy to aid him in whatever small way she could manage.

She dipped the cloth in the water, wringing it out. She ran it along his shoulder first, watching as the water rolled down his chest. She blinked, reminding herself that this was not about intimacy. She was merely helping him wash, a task she had performed near daily when he was recovering in bed. Since he had returned to work, he did not require help. She had seen his body dozens of times, but it had been a long time since she had seen him all at once, not covered by a sheet.

"Is that alright?" She asked softly, lowering the cloth to his chest. "It is not too cold?"

"No."

She continued to wash his chest, the muscles flexing under her hand. He said nothing further, merely stared straight ahead. She washed further, gently gliding over the scars on his stomach. He took a sharp intake of breath, and she flinched.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Just sensitive."

She moved away from his stomach, instead cleaning the dirt from his arms. When she looked down, she gasped involuntarily. He was fully erect.

"John.." She breathed, for it was a sight she had not seen for months. A feeling she had almost forgotten existed throbbed between her legs as she stared unashamedly at the length of him. It had been so long since they had lain together. It had not mattered; it was inconsequential when he had been so ill, and his recovery was far more important than any lust she may have felt.

Now, seeing him in this state, she dared to hope that they might resume the physical side of their marriage at some point in the near future. She missed it, missed the feeling of being wrapped up in his embrace, of being consumed by his passion for her. She reached out, her fingertips brushing against him, hard and warm beneath her skin. He hissed.

He turned away from her.

"I'm sorry."

Margaret's smile rapidly faded, and she recoiled. He had looked at her in disgust, and she felt shame flood through her. Confusion, too, for he had never had any complaints when she had touched him before.

"Please, do not apologise." She said, trying to force a smile as she reached out to touch his hair. "I should not have done that, the fault is mine."

He flinched, as though the brush of her skin against his scalp had burned him.

"You deserve more than this." He said suddenly, bitterness tinging his voice. "More than a crippled husband who cannot control himself."

"Do not speak like that!" Margaret took him by his uninjured shoulder and turned him around as roughly as she dared. She cupped his face in her hands. "You are my husband. I love you, and your injuries change nothing. Nothing. You are as handsome as the day we married, and far braver than I could ever have imagined."

"Don't lie to me."

"I am not lying!"

"I am scarred, weak and incompetent. I cannot even be trusted to wash myself!"

"I am happy to help you. I would do whatever you needed and do it gladly, do you not see that?!"

"I have been no husband to you, Margaret. We've been married nearly a year. You should be with child by now, yet I have failed in my obligations to you."

That was certainly unexpected. The thought had not even entered her mind; there was so much to think about that, although she would like children very much, she had not given the subject any thought. She had not reached for him at night since the evening before that terrible day that had changed anything. She was terrified of causing him further pain, and he needed to sleep. It did not matter, not until he had recovered fully.

"You think I care about that now? You nearly died! I am thankful every single day that you are here with me. That is enough. You are enough!"

"How can I be enough? A scarred, mutilated monster is not the husband you wanted."

It physically pained her to hear him talk about himself in such a way. He was no monster; his injuries were not something she feared. It hurt her when she looked at him, but only because it made her ache to know he had suffered so greatly and come so close to death.

"Stop it! Stop saying these awful things, for I cannot bear it!"

"You should not have to! You deserve a better man."

"There is no man better than you!" She felt tears slip from her eyes, and she scrubbed at her face furiously. "You cannot push me away and claim it is for my own benefit!"

"Would it not be of benefit to you to have a husband with all of his fingers? You are married to a man who can't write his own fucking name!" His voice cracked, hand running through his hair and pulling hard.

His eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed heavily, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to control his breathing. He walked away from her furiously, his heavy footstepsthundering against the floor. She stared blankly for a moment, the harsh tone of his voice slicing the last remnants of composure she had left. The bitterness in his words, the contempt he had for himself and the doubt he expressed over their marriage - it was too much.

"Stop it!" She sobbed, falling to the floor and covering her face with her hands. "Stop it, I beg you!"

The silence was unbearable. Her chest ached as she forced herself not to cry, not to show anger that she had no right to express. Margaret looked up, and John was leaning against the wall. He faced away from her, his head pressed against the wall as his shoulders shook. His left hand made a fist, and he pounded it repeatedly against the wall as he groaned with frustration. She got to her feet, walking over to him and placing her head against his back. Her arms wrapped around him, mindful not to press too hard. His left hand found hers, their fingers lacing together. He said nothing, his chest heaving as he sobbed.

"I love you." Margaret said against his skin. "I love you more than I thought possible. Nothing has changed."

"Everything has changed." He spat back in a trembling voice. "You're a fool to say otherwise."

"But nothing has altered my love for you. I am so proud of you, do you know that? You have made a marvellous recovery, every day you grow stronger. You will write again, John. You run that mill with the same sharpness you have always done, despite the pain you must be in and the.." She paused, knowing her words must be chosen cautiously lest she make the situation worse "adjustments you have had to make. Your workers respect you, for they know you are human and have suffered in the same way so many of them have suffered. You strive to make that mill safer, and they see that."

"They see a crippled man that they pity." He muttered.

"I know that isn't true. Not at all."

"Margaret - if you wish to end this marriage-"

"No!"

"There would be no judgement. Nobody would blame you."

"You try and pull away from me, John, but I shall not let you. You would have me leave you, allow you to disappear into yourself until there is no saving you? No. I am here, by your side. I cannot take your pain away, but I will not allow it to drive you from me"

"This isn't the life you expected."

"Perhaps not. I made my vows, and I meant every one of them." She eased herself away from him, her hand gently turning him from his waist. He could not meet her eyes as he turned, still naked in front of her. "I want you, John. Just you. However you are."

"Mutilated." He repeated, his face totally blank.

"Injured." She countered. "You were injured, and you are recovering marvellously. I want you as much as I ever did. I am attracted to you now more than ever, for not only are you beautiful-"

He scoffed bitterly.

"Handsome. Strong. Brave. Determined. Stubborn." She punctuated each word with a kiss to his skin, trailing down until she knelt in front of him. She kissed his thigh, and he inhaled sharply as her lips pressed against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. "I love you. I mean it. I love you."

"I love you. I love you so much, I would never - I would never trap you. I want you to know there is a way out of this for you."

"I am not trapped." Margaret rose to her feet, kissing his collarbone for that was all she could reach. "I am quite content in our marriage, I assure you."

"You swear it?"

"Yes." She reached up, brushing the hair from his face. "I swear it. I know this has been difficult for you. I do not want you to hide your pain from me. To think that you have been having these thoughts and you did not tell me..."

He scrubbed at his face with his left hand, his breathing gradually slowing. She waited until he spoke, holding him at the waist and leaning her head against him. He did not reciprocate, but she did not let go.

"Most days I am fine. Today - today I felt like a failure. I don't know what it was, maybe that I cannot repair machines or sign a contract with anything other than a shoddily scrawled X. I am not who I was."

"You are John Thornton. Nothing could change that." She stroked his face, his eyes still unsure as he met her gaze. She smiled at him. "You are still filthy. May I finish before the water turns to ice?"

"Aye, go on then."

She led him to the towel, gesturing that he should stand on it. He did so, staring straight ahead as his body tensed. She put her hand in the water, relieved to find that it was still warm. Taking a deep, steadying breath to try and chase away the sadness that threatened to swallow her, she resumed her ministrations with the cloth.

She went to clean his shoulder.

"You've done that already." He said. "I'll have the cleanest shoulders in Milton."

She smiled, for his tone was suddenly light and a tiny grin quirked on his lips. She could see a shadow of what he was, and it gave her hope. She nodded, running the cloth down his arm. She did the same on his right, taking great care as the cloth passed over the angry red welts of his scars. He flinched.

"I must clean them." Margaret said apologetically. "Doctor Donaldson said they must be cleaned regularly."

"It's fine." He said through gritted teeth, wincing a little. "Be quick."

She finished with his arm, and decided she would allow him to do his hand later. He did not like to be touched there, and he hid it away as often as he could. Even now, bare and exposed as he was, as soon as she moved away from him, he tucked his arm behind his back. The sight of his wounded hand did not bother her; it was not something to be feared. It was different, that was all, and she would not insult him by being afraid of his body. She had meant every word she said; nothing about him repulsed her, nor frightened her. She hoped that with time, he would come to see that too.

"There." Margaret nodded as she admired her handiwork. "Much better. Your face?"

"I can wash my face."

"Very well." She swept her eyes downwards. "Your legs."

"Margaret-"

She got to her knees, wringing the cloth in the bowl and cleaning his thighs. She smiled when she hit a ticklish spot his behind his knee, for his leg flexed and he made a funny little grunting sound above her. She moved to the same spot on his other leg, and she felt a little jolt of happiness as he laughed.

"You're teasing me."

"I'm washing you!"

"Hmm, well I think I am clean enough behind my knees, thank you Mrs Thornton."

She ran the cloth back up his legs, over his thighs and towards his groin. He inhaled sharply as she cleaned him. She was as quick as possible in this area, not wishing to make him uncomfortable again.

"There."

"Thank you."

She did not rise to her feet. Indeed, her senses quite left her as she found herself utterly transfixed by the obvious erection between his legs. It was not polite to stare, but she could not help it. He shifted under her gaze, clearing his throat.

"Margaret?"

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"You were staring."

"Yes, I suppose I was. I am sorry."

"I know they are not pleasant to see."

"I, ah, was not staring at your scars." Margaret explained, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment as his eyes lowered to the body part she had been staring at so blatantly.

He raised both eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh."

"Do you miss it?" Margaret blurted out.

"What?"

"Lying together."

"Oh." He cleared his throat again, the fingers of his left hand digging into his thigh. "Yes."

"I do as well." She whispered, eyes finally dragging away from him. "I miss being close to you."

"You wish to be close to me? Still?"

"Of course."

"I thought perhaps - you have made no mention of wishing to lie together. I did not want to force you."

"I did not want to hurt you! I thought you were not ready. I did not want to make demands of you while you were healing, not before you're ready."

"Believe me, I am ready." He looked down at himself once more, and Margaret laughed.

"I see that."

There was a sudden lightness between them, a return to the gentle good humour they had shared before the day that had changed everything. Though she was not so naive to believe that their problems were over, perhaps they had begun to move past the worst of things.

"Perhaps - could we try?" He asked softly, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "I may not be able to - to love you as I used to. But let me touch you."

"We can try whatever you wish. As slow as you need."

"It has been six months." John said, holding out his left hand and helping her to her feet. "I cannot promise anything will be slow."

She smiled as he leaned forward and kissed her, so softly and so sweetly that she felt herself sigh against his mouth. He pulled her closer, his body damp against hers. He kept his right arm well away from her, and she did not raise her hand to touch him. He needed to control this, to tell her what he wanted. She was content enough to be kissed, to feel the press of his erection against her hip. Whatever he gave her, she would take gladly.

"The bed." He groaned against her lips.

He had been standing for a long time, she realised, and must be exhausted after a day at work. She cursed herself for not considering this before.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"I'm fine." John stared at her for a moment. "I want - I want to feel like a man again. Don't apologise, or treat me with kid gloves. If I am in pain, I will stop. Trust me."

"You are a man, John. You have never stopped being a man."

"Then let me be a man who fucks his wife." He near growled the words as his hand gripped at her waist, tugging her closer.

She felt a thrill run through her, her breath stolen away by his sinful words. It had been so long since he had spoken to her in such a way, she had almost forgotten the effect a few simple words could have on her. She felt hot, almost unbearably so, and the pulsing between her legs had returned.

His words were not the only thing that expressed his desire; his gaze upon her was unmistakably carnal. She was dressed in her nightgown, but the intensity of his eyes upon her made her feel as bare as he was. He pulled at the loose fabric at her waist, and she stepped away from him. With one eager tug, she pulled the unwelcome garment up over her head, discarding it behind her.

"You're so damned perfect." He muttered as he stared at her in awe. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"I ask myself the same question." She said, reaching up and kissing him softly. "Will you take me to bed?"

"Yes."

She walked to the bed first, taking a deep breath as she did so. She felt overwhelmed, as nervous as she had been on their wedding night. She knew accommodations would have to be made, for he was unable to bear weight on his arm, and the nature of the injuries to his chest meant he could not move in the same way he had done before.

She climbed into bed, covering herself as she did so. He joined her, and for a moment they lay side by side in silence staring at the ceiling.

"How might we go about this?" Margaret asked finally. "I will not coddle you, but nor will I allow you to hurt yourself for the sake of pride. Tell me what I must do to make this comfortable for you, pleasurable for us both."

"I can't - it hurts to lie on my side." He said. "And I won't be able to be above you. My chest will not stand it, nor my arm."

He raised his left arm, creating a space beside him. Margaret rolled to her side and filled the space, pressing her body close to him. He held her tightly, kissing the top of her head as he held her. It had been some time since they had even embraced, and Margaret relished the feel of his skin against hers. She breathed him in, the familiar scent of his soap and skin filling her lungs. Oh, she had missed this!

"I have missed you." He murmured into her hair. "I was wrong to push you away."

"Shh." Margaret kissed his collar bone. "Let us focus on tonight."

She raised her face, kissing him on the lips. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. She sank into it, her mind turning blank as she focused only on the intensity of this moment. His hand brushed her back lightly, the trail of his fingertips against her feeling like sparks against her skin. Every touch, however small or gentle, brought them closer together after so long apart.

She hooked her leg over his, pressing herself unashamedly against his thigh. He groaned, his hand moving lower to pull her closer, fingers kneading the flesh of her behind greedily. She gasped as she ground herself against him, the sensations almost too much to bear after so long without any intimacy at all.

She trailed her hand down over his chest, careful to avoid his scars for she did not wish any pain to distract from this bliss, until she found the hard length of his cock. She did not hesitate, wrapping her hand around him just as he had shown her on their wedding night.

"Oh, God, yes." He muttered brokenly, his head tipping back as his hips bucked into her willing hand. "Yes."

He moved his arm, and she lifted up slightly so he might disentangle himself from her. He pushed her back slightly, his hand between her legs before she could ask what he was doing. She gasped, kissing him desperately as he worked a slow, teasing rhythm against her. She felt dizzy with it, taking his lower lip between her teeth as he pushed a finger inside her. It was too much, yet somehow not enough. The rush of sensation was overwhelming in the best possible way.

The harsh, desperate rhythm of his breathing mingled with her own as mouths clashed and hands worked desperately.

"Stop." He panted against her mouth, though his hand continued. "I'm too close, stop."

"But-"

"I want to be inside you."

"John, if you are not ready, you don't have to-"

"I am ready. We might need - I cannot-"

"Tell me what you need. Anything."

"You need to be atop me. A leg on either side."

"What?" Margaret felt a little stab of panic, for they had certainly never joined in such a way. "Like riding a horse?"

He laughed, a sound that brought joy to her even as he brought her closer and closer to bliss.

"Aye, just like that." A rough urgency filled his voice as his fingers moved faster against her. "You're so tight, so wet. I need you."

"Oh..." Margaret's eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure coiled so tightly in her that she felt she might snap clean in two with the force of it. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

"Come for me." He muttered in her ear, his voice hard and demanding. "Come on my hand."

Margaret's head fell forward, nestling in the crook of his neck as she near screamed with the force of her release. Pleasure spiralled from her centre to the tips of her toes, her skin flushed and every nerve came alive as she sobbed against his neck. He groaned too, fingers pushing inside her harder as the waves of pleasure crashed over her again and again.

"Show me what I must do." She said breathlessly, as he withdrew his fingers. "Whatever you wish."

She rose to her knees beside him, gazing down at the length of his body. He instinctively went to cover his right side, but she shook her head. He hesitated, but let his left hand fall back by his side. She wanted to see him, all of him. The scars did not bother her; they were part of him, and she was not so squeamish as to let them interfere with her enjoyment of her husband's body.

"Put your knees either side of me." He adjusted himself so he lay in the center of the mattress, waiting for her to do as he had instructed.

When she had settled above him, he raised his hand to her face.

"So beautiful." He muttered, almost to himself. "More than I deserve."

"What do I do?" Margaret asked.

He gestured that he should move forward, and when she was positioned directly above him, the blunt tip of him pushing against her, she sank down until he was buried inside her.

She closed her eyes, holding her breath as she adjusted to the sensation. She felt full, almost too full as she moved her hips hesitantly. It was not unpleasant, nor did it hurt it was just - new. She had never thought that the act could be done this way. John had always been above her, his strong arms bracketing her head as he kissed her passionately, his hips crashing into hers. It had always felt so wonderful, she was not sure she knew how to give him that same pleasure.

"Move your hips." He gritted out, watching her. "Please. Ride me."

She did as he bid her, moving her hips more certainly than she had done before. He hissed, his eyes closed as he raised his hips to meet hers. She watched him as he muttered to himself.

"Will you not look at me?" She asked, moving lower so she might kiss him. "Please."

"I can't." He bit out. "I can't look at you."

"Please."

He opened his eyes slowly, exhaling sharply. His hand rose to touch her breasts, and she moaned with pleasure as he caught her nipple in his fingers. He bucked up hard, causing her to cry out.

"Do you like that?"

She could not speak, for she had found a rhythm that made her feel wonderful. She was breathless as she rose up and down on him, his fingers at her center as he rubbed against her in the way that made sparks shoot up her spine. She struggled to keep her weight off him, for her body was becoming tight and somehow liquid at the same time.

"I - I-"

"I'm going to come." He rasped. "Fuck."

"Oh, yes!" Margaret fell forward, trying to keep her weight off him as she felt him pulse inside her, her breath stolen as he spilled inside her. She did not move, not wanting to break this spell. She had not felt so close to her husband in months; she was in no hurry to let him leave her.

They lay in silence, her weight braced on one arm as he held her as tightly as he could. Margaret watched him, content to her very bones and seeing the same reflected in his face. When some time had passed, she gently climbed off him and settled beside him, coming to rest in the crook of his arm as he held her tightly to him.

Then, sated and at peace, they fell asleep.


End file.
